


basic human functions

by noclouds



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, M/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, mentions of past trauma, sleeping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-15 02:47:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20858963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noclouds/pseuds/noclouds
Summary: "he's been up here too long... gone native."





	basic human functions

**Author's Note:**

> the number of character studies I have for this damn demon... also, i've loved good omens since i was ten, i'm twenty and it's an honor to write for it now. 
> 
> welcome back to lowercase land! land of poetic angst and character reflection!

crowley liked sleeping, loved it, even though he would never admit it. he discovered it in the 19th century, after being summoned without notice to the inner circles of hell for stopping time too frequently. he doesn’t like to think back on it, and even though the scars across his skin have healed, the recollection of them go deeper. if he couldn't stop time to avoid the displeasure, there had to be a way around it. that's when he looked at the humans, a bit closer this time, watched them sleep and rise with the sun and moon.

he remembered when they were created. how the clay from her hands seamlessly guided itself into beauty. the first steps, the wide-eyed look at the world they were given. crowley had the same experience. but that was a long time ago.

through the sleep cycles humans carried themselves through, the darkness of the night was enough to ease them to rest. but candlelight was good for those moments where they would awaken, take some notes, do some work, or pray, but those moments were short-lived, restarts to their bodies. crowley's body wasn't human, though it looked it, and he tried his best to maintain it as such, following whatever the humans deemed normal. except his glasses, tinted black, for the humans' sake. he had been tired of being perceived as an omen or worse, a god amongst men.

he decided to follow humans once more. he rather liked the things they came up with. that was the original thing that god wanted, he recalled, and let the thought stop there. no sense in thinking about things that can never change.

so, sleeping.  
resting.  
and dreaming.

he wanted to give it a shot, wanted to speed past this nightmare of a century.

crowley tried it standing up, but almost fell over in the process, banging his head on the lone table in the bare room. he tried sitting down on the floor, resting his head against the dusty wall. it only worked for a moment. his mind was racing with everything he could and couldn't do, what hell wanted for him, what he wanted, his next idea, what he would say to hastur and ligur to satisfy them. he couldn't stop those thoughts, not for a long enough time to ever give himself a sense of relaxation. it was impossible, the hellfire and power that flowed through him deemed to stop any sense of goodwill he could wish upon himself. demons don’t get to take care of themselves. demons don’t get to indulge in pleasure; there had to be a cost. it was hypocritical, the tempter could not be seen having a moment of enjoyment. every second of his existence was forced to corrupt humanity and secure souls for hell through hinting humanity towards sin.

and yet even so, sloth was a sin, wasn’t it?

and when did crowley ever really care what hell thought about him, anyway? he had long since ever cared about what anyone thought about him (well, almost anyone…)

humans slept in a bed, crowley remembered. a duck-plucked feather-soft thing to lay their heads on. being comfortable led its way to relaxation. he didn't have a bed, and the only horizontal space in the room was the wall. it seemed clean enough. the floor had been a bit scuffed with dirt and whatever from under his shoe. they really had to do something about all that shit in the street, no wonder so many of them were sick half the time.

crowley threw himself against the wall, sighing against the cool plaster against his cheek. he still couldn't fall asleep despite being the most comfortable this way.

it took a few days, but when crowley finally did fall asleep after snapping a simple bed into existence, he didn't wake up for a few months. the bed helped, humans were right again.

it was the best secret he learned about time.  
how fast it would go away like it was nothing.  
he wanted to rid the century goodbye, and slept through most of it.

crowley liked sleep. it allowed his mind to shut up, and for him to forget. even just for a while. he wasn't quite sure if running from his very existence was healthy, but he tried to do it the best way he could.

he thought of aziraphale.

aziraphale loved food, always had. that was the aspect he had picked up on, his note taken from humanity.

and how human it was, to grow and morph and change with your own desire, rather than avoid the unavoidable with sleep. how sweet, the angel was. like profiteroles. or the oysters from rome, aziraphale had been so surprised by their "natural sweetness" supposed to saltiness from the waters they were pulled up from.

crowley didn't like eating, moreso didn't like the taste as everything he put in his mouth tasted like sulfur.

it was a grim reminder. his senses had been dulled from being cast out from heaven, with the burning, the pain-- it was hard to forget who you were when everything you did was because of it. a mistake, a truly dumb mistake, he'd yell at himself. oh, and how badly he'd want to enjoy things too.

he let aziraphale describe food for him instead. let the angel excitedly ramble out of pairing sauces, the correct way to serve duck, how everything is so much better with just a hint of salt, even cookies. how important the flakiness is for pastry crust. how sweet red wine can be paired with a rare cut of filet mignon. (he had expensive tastes, crowley knew, because it only meant the best quality.)

it was better this way. crowley liked when aziraphale talked, the painfully optimistic. but he wouldn't mention as such, only continue to scowl over a glass of wine.

aziraphale wasn't dumb. crowley never told him any of this, but he never got the sense that the angel thought he had been truly mad at him for partaking in pleasure. that was his job.

there were a few things that did breakthrough, however.  
alcohol, coffee, for example. he was fond of espresso and always took his coffee black.  
tea was more of a force of habit and, similarly, never any sugar or milk.

crowley liked drinking things. he could avoid it from his tongue and relish in the liquid against his throat. it still left a smoky aftertaste, or just a sense in his mouth. but that was easier to ignore.

he really liked alcohol.  
he liked getting drunk.  
he liked letting go.

he liked doing anything to get himself out of his situation. aziraphale called it a coping mechanism. crowley said he was stupid.

"nothing to cope with, i made my decision, no shame in that, angel."

no shame.  
well, maybe he needed another nap.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow! Thank you so much for reading! I really like these poetic little stories and I hope you did too. If you did, please kudos and let me know what you think in the comments. There's a lot of little hints in the story for fans of the book, shout outs to you all. 
> 
> You can find me at [pequenoleon](https://pequenoleon.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


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